


Nameday

by The_Queen_In_The_North



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Non-Consensual Touching, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25458118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Queen_In_The_North/pseuds/The_Queen_In_The_North
Summary: It's Sansa Stark's fifteenth nameday, and to her dismay, King Joffrey Baratheon hopes to make it one she will never forget. However, Sandor Clegane plans on giving her what she wants.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 38
Kudos: 239





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s your fifteenth nameday, my lady. Next year, you’ll be a woman grown, although you look the part already. What say you, dog?”

Sansa stood there as naked as her nameday, _on_ her nameday, awoken by the surprisingly gentle grip of the Hound who had been ordered by King Joffrey to pull her from her bed. It had been a poor decision on her part to sleep nude the night before; one pale arm rushed to cover her breasts, and the other lowered to cover the auburn curls between her legs, but it was futile; Joffrey had already seen her, and so did the Hound.

“A woman grown, Your Grace,” the Hound agreed vacantly, his eyes fixed on the wall behind her. 

While the Hound showed self-restraint, Joffrey did not. The golden-haired king was engrossed with her bare body, and a malicious, mischievous grin played on his lips. “Drop your arms,” he ordered.

Sansa glanced quickly at the Hound when she heard a subtle sigh escape him. “Your Grace, may I--”

“I said drop your arms!” Joffrey shouted. 

Abruptly, her arms dropped to her sides, and so, too, did her eyes to the floor. Sansa heard Joffrey chuckle, but she also heard the Hound shift, his armor rattling with the movement. 

“That’s better,” Joffrey said smugly. “Now, my lady, what would you like for your nameday?”

Sansa felt the tears well up in her eyes from the humiliation, but they were not tears of sadness, but tears of resentment, utterly scornful of the wicked king in front of her. “Whatever pleases you to give me, Your Grace,” she muttered quietly.

Although she couldn’t see him, Sansa knew Joffrey was glaring at her. “Tell me, or I’ll have my dog come over there and beat it out of you.”

“Riding,” she blurted out. “If it pleases you, Your Grace, I’d like to go riding.”

“ _Riding?_ ” the cruel king repeated in such a way it made her stomach turn. “Since when do you like riding?”

_I never did care for it. I’ve always preferred singing, dancing, and sewing, but that was before all of this, before my father was murdered, before I became a prisoner. Arya, my poor little sister who is likely dead, was the one who loved to ride. But, if I can get on the back of a horse..._

Dreaming of an escape, even if it meant her death, Sansa lifted her face and was met with Joffrey’s scowl. “It’s been so long, Your Grace. It would be a welcome departure from my usual activities.” _And it will get me out of these cursed walls._

“Riding,” he repeated, his scowl transitioning into a grin, “on that pretty white mare of yours?” 

Sansa looked briefly again at the Hound and saw him wince. Hesitantly, she said, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“I’ve a better idea!” Joffrey exclaimed, smacking his hands together. “Since my lady is feeling distant from her mare, I’ll have Ser Ilyn pay her a visit and present you with her head as a nameday gift.”

“No, you can’t!” Sansa blundered. Joffrey’s sudden joy dissipated, and what followed was a grimace as foreboding as the Stranger deity himself.

“Dog, beat her.”

The Hound’s gaze shifted down, too far down, and his grey eyes met her breasts before they met her face. “Your Grace, it’s your betrothed’s nameday. Perhaps you can gift the child mercy for her disrespect. Your mother will summon her for supper, and you’ll want her presentable, not bleeding and bruised.”

Joffrey grunted. “Right you are, dog. I don’t care to hear my mother’s tiresome complaints.” The young king gave a disappointed sigh and pointed at her. “I’m still gifting you your mare’s head, and not even my mother can stop me.”

Her suppressed rage forced the tears that had welled up in her eyes to fall, and her dream of an escape was crushed as fast as it was concocted. “If it pleases Your Grace,” she sniffled.

The golden-haired boy stepped forward and squeezed one of her breasts tightly, causing her to whimper. “Fifteen, yet you’ve got bigger teats than half the whores I’ve introduced to my crossbow,” he said sadistically. “Perhaps tonight I can pay you a visit and strip you of your maidenhead. That would be the best way to end your nameday, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sansa couldn't speak over the lump that had grown in her throat, and she found herself eyeing the sheathed dagger in the Hound’s sword belt. _If I grabbed that dagger to shove into Joffrey’s smug face, would the Hound even stop me?_ Rather than take her chances, Sansa only nodded.

“Good.” Joffrey squeezed once more before releasing her breast, the red imprint of his fingers visible on her soft, white skin. “Come, dog.”

As Joffrey turned towards the door, Sansa lifted her gaze and noticed that the Hound was staring at her bare body just before giving her a look that could only be empathy. He followed out the room once Joffrey had exited, and Sansa broke her fast that morning on nothing but her tears.

* * *

It would be a nameday so awful that Sansa found herself wishing it would be her deathday instead. 

After Joffrey had left that morning, her chambermaid, a small, pretty, black-haired girl named Shae, arrived to bathe her. She kindly wished her a happy nameday, but Sansa knew it would only be the opposite. _Joffrey intends on making this day the worst of them all._

Shortly after bathing and refusing to eat one bite of the food Shae had brought to her bedchamber, Sansa had been summoned to court by Joffrey. Rather than be escorted by Shae, Joffrey had sent Ser Mandon Moore to bring her into the throne room, and the dead-faced member of the Kingsguard did so with a firm grip on her upper arm the entire way. When she was brought forward, Joffrey ordered Ser Mandon to set her down onto her knees. The false knight gave her one forceful shove, and Sansa’s kneecaps met the floor in front of the Iron Throne with enough force to dramatically bruise her skin. Cersei was not present, nor was Tyrion, and only the Hound stood to Joffrey’s right, squeezing the hilt of his longsword.

“Lady Sansa,” Joffrey feigned kindness. “I’ve summoned you because I’ve reconsidered your nameday gift.” 

_He won’t have my mare decapitated after all,_ Sansa thought hopefully. However, that hope died once the king’s pouty lips opened again. 

“The gift of mercy,” he clarified with a sinister grin. “I’ll deal with my mother’s scolding later. Ser Mandon, unburden my betrothed of her gown.”

Before Sansa could try to defend herself, the pale-eyed knight stood behind her, gripping the fabric of her dress with both hands and ripping it apart in one swift motion. Ser Mandon continued to tug and pull until her breasts were bared once again, the fabric of her bodice ragged and resting in her lap.

Joffrey laughed gleefully. “Now, beat her.”

Anticipating the impact, Sansa shut her eyes tightly and, despite herself, started to cry. She listened as Ser Mandon unsheathed his sword, but before the flat of the blade could hit her, a second sound of steel exiting its scabbard grew audible.

“Dog, what are you doing?!” she heard Joffrey yell. Sansa’s head lifted up quickly from the floor and saw that the young king was standing up, staring in disbelief at the Hound who wielded his sword.

His face was still, but there was a fury in his eyes when he said, “Your uncle will be here any moment, Your Grace, and you remember his threat; if he sees the girl harmed in court one more time, he may very well convince your mother to annul your betrothal.”

“Have you gone _mad_ , Clegane?” shouted Ser Mandon, holding the hilt of his sword tightly with both hands just beside her. “You’d _draw your steel_ to prevent me from carrying out commands ordered by my king?”

“No, I’d _shove my steel_ down your throat and out your arse if your sword so much as brushes against His Grace’s betrothed,” he snarled.

“Oh, enough!” Joffrey shouted, plopping down onto the Iron Throne and pouting. “Ser Mandon, stand down. The Hound has the right of it; my uncle has proven not to make idle threats,” he groaned with disdain. “Dog, take my betrothed back to her bedchamber. I can’t bear to listen to her wailing.”

Just as Sansa attempted to stand up, the massive body of Sandor Clegane stood in front of her, unclasping his white Kingsguard cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders. It may have only been silk, but it felt as if he had given her Valyrian Steel armor, fully protecting her from the cruelty of Joffrey and his fellow Kingsguard.

“Up, girl,” he said, offering her one large gloved hand.

Sansa could hear Ser Mandon cursing under his breath while he sheathed his sword just as she placed her dainty hand on the brawny one in front of her. Once on her feet, her knees aching from the earlier impact, the Hound’s hand quickly but gently let go of her own. Using both of her hands, Sansa tightened the cloak around her exposed torso and exited the throne room with Sandor Clegane following close behind.

Once a safe enough distance away inside an emptied corridor, Sansa looked up at the man walking beside her and quietly uttered, “Thank you, ser.”

“Don’t thank me yet, little bird,” he mumbled, ignoring the courtesy title. “The day is still young.”

The huge man walked so close to her that her shoulder would often brush up against his arm, yet not once did he move away, and neither did she. In fact, Sansa welcomed it. Each time her cloaked shoulder touched him, Sansa felt a singular sensation stir in her core, and the thoughts in her mind that followed would have made her septa blush. The tense silence that grew between them was broken when he finally asked, “Do you want to ride?”

Sansa suddenly looked up at him wide-eyed, only to realize afterwards she had misinterpreted his question and was influenced by the crude fantasies playing in her head. The Hound cleared his throat upon her reaction, and on his lips, Sansa saw the faintest hint of a smile. 

“The horse, girl,” he said.

“Joffrey will never let me leave,” Sansa sighed. He was silent after that, curiously silent, and remained so until they reached her bedchamber, the only communication between the two being the grazing of their sides.

“In you go, little bird,” the Hound muttered beside the door.

Sansa didn’t want him to leave, not yet, and thought of the perfect excuse to have him stay, even if for only one moment longer. 

“Your cloak,” she said, “If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll change dresses and give it back to you.”

He exhaled after she said it, and it almost sounded like he was relieved. Sansa wondered if he, too, was wanting the moment to extend. “All right, girl, go on. I’ll wait here.”

“Or you could come in,” Sansa suggested far bolder than she felt.

When the Hound stared into her eyes in silence, she felt more naked than she had earlier that morning. His only response was placing one muscled, gloved hand onto the handle of the door and forcing it wide open. Sansa’s heart fluttered inside her chest, and she felt a warmth in her rise, exhilarated by his acceptance of her offer. In an effort to hide her girlish smile, she entered the bedchamber first with her head facing the ground. When his hand abruptly grabbed her shoulder, turning her around and taking her in his arms, Sansa thought he meant to kiss her. 

“Don’t look, little bird,” he exhaled sharply. 

“What?” she gasped, startled by the tone of his voice. 

Before the Hound could pull her from the room, she looked over her shoulder. The last thing Sansa saw before she fainted was the severed head of her white mare, bleeding and resting atop the vanity.


	2. Chapter 2

“Would m’lady like to visit the gardens on her nameday?” 

_M’lady would like to mount her mare and leave this cursed city, but her mare is dead, much like her hope of ever leaving King’s Landing._

Sansa laid on her featherbed, facing away from the vanity that had been cleaned at some point during the hour she was unconscious, and held the white cloak that Sandor Clegane had not taken back from her.

“No,” Sansa mumbled. “I’d rather not.”

Shae sat beside her on the bed, one tender hand grabbing her own, and the maid gave her a roguish smile. “I think m’lady would be happy that she did.”

Sansa squinted at her. “Why?” 

“Trust me, m’lady,” the older girl said playfully.

Surrendering to her curiosity, Sansa stood from the bed, now wearing a gown as blue as her eyes, and followed her maid out the door. As the two young women walked together, Sansa noticed Shae glancing over at her, each time more mischievous than the last, and she couldn’t deny that the mystery thrilled her. _Perhaps my nameday will not be entirely awful, afterall,_ Sansa thought. Before they could finish crossing the courtyard towards the gardens, Tyrion Lannister appeared exiting a nearby tower. Shae sighed heavily at his approach. _Or, perhaps it will be._

“My lady,” Tyrion greeted, eyeing her maid suspiciously. “I was just on my way to visit you to wish you a happy nameday. Allow me to apologize on behalf of my dear, troubled nephew. If you’d like, I can escort you to the stables and you can pick out a new mare, whichever your heart desires,” he said sympathetically.

_All picking out a new mare would do is have a second head delivered to my vanity._

Sansa decided not to say that and smiled kindly instead. “Thank you, my lord, but I was just on my way to the gardens.”

“Ah,” he said curiously, looking over at Shae once more. “Why the gardens?”

“M’lady wishes to visit them, that’s why,” her maid said dauntlessly. 

Sansa looked at her in shock. “Shae!”

“It’s quite all right, my lady,” Tyrion excused. “Of course, it’s none of my business, but if you don’t mind, I think I’ll join you. The gardens sound like the perfect place to unwind after speaking with my sweet sister.”

Sansa watched as Shae shook her head subtly, but denying him would only make him more suspicious of her. Unable to come up with a clever enough excuse, Sansa said “Of course, my lord.” Shae sighed again. 

“Wonderful,” he said, falling in beside them as they continued through the yard. "Let's see what wonders await us."

Several minutes later, the three arrived inside the gardens of the Red Keep that overlooked the Blackwater Rush, one of the major rivers in Westeros. It was a beautiful place, almost as quaint as the godswood in Winterfell, and just past the entrance and to her right, Sansa spotted the Hound. And so did Tyrion.

The lord immediately frowned and gave Sansa’s maid a disapproving look. “Clegane,” he called out as they approached him. “Has my nephew no need of you?”

The Hound was visibly frustrated with Tyrion’s presence, and he made that known by spitting on the stone walkway inside the gardens. “He’s busy with his crossbow.”

“And a dying whore, no doubt,” Tyrion added. Sansa saw her maid shoot him a disgruntled look at that. “A surprising place for you to be in your free time, Clegane. I’d have guessed you to be in a tavern or a brothel.” Sansa felt her cheeks blush after he uttered the last word, but not from embarrassment; the thought of Sandor Clegane in a brothel angered her.

The Hound eyed him threateningly. “It’s the middle of the bloody day.”

“I’ve never known that to stop you before,” Tyrion provoked him with a smile.

“M’lady,” Shae interposed just before the Hound could lose his patience, “if you have no need of me, might m’lord take me to the stables? I can inform you of which mares are available.”

 _Shae and the Hound planned for me to come here alone,_ Sansa knew. _And now she is trying to get rid of Tyrion._ Sansa saw the pleading look on the Hound’s face and suddenly longed to kiss him. “Lord Tyrion, would you mind?”

“Oh, not at all,” he said curiously. “But before I go, allow me to give you your nameday gift. I planned on giving it to you during supper, but this is a beautiful spot, far more beautiful than being in the company of my sweet sister and nephew.” Tyrion reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet pouch that was plum in color and handed it to her, yet his eyes were fixed on Sandor Clegane all the while, as if he were reading his reaction.

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa said, opening the pouch and pouring its contents into her palm. It was a dainty bronze chain with a modestly sized pendant engraved with the direwolf of House Stark. “It’s lovely.”

“Your brother, Robb, the King in the North, is said to wear a crown made of bronze and iron. I thought it only fitting that you, a princess, have something similar.” Although he had been speaking to her, not once did Tyrion meet her gaze. His eyes remained on the Hound who was now glaring at him, unblinking. 

“Oh, dear gods, you love her,” Tyrion quietly declared. Sansa’s heart skipped a beat, her eyes quickly shifting to the Hound who only stood there sullenly, never denying it. “Are you a fool, Clegane? Do you know what Joffrey would do to you, what he would do to _her_ , if he found out?”

“Uncle!” the king’s infuriating voice became audible. “What are you doing in the gardens with my dog and my betrothed?”

Tyrion turned around to face King Joffrey and Ser Mandon Moore and feigned an innocent grin. “I saw that your pet was without duty, so I had him carry my dwarf body over to the gardens to wish the Lady Sansa a happy nameday.”

Joffrey gave a wry chuckle. “Funny, uncle.” He turned to Sansa and gave her a vicious smirk. _Thinking of my headless mare, no doubt._ “Enjoy your first nameday present, my lady?”

Sansa could feel the Hound tense up beside her. “As long as it pleased Your Grace.”

“It did, but not as much as it will please me to take your maidenhead tonight.” The king’s wicked gaze shifted down to her hand, and he grabbed her wrist to pull it closer. “What’s this?” 

Sansa clasped the necklace with her fingers before he could snatch it away and pulled her wrist out of his weak grasp, clutching the necklace defensively to her breast.

“A nameday gift from me, nephew,” Tyrion said warily.

Joffrey frowned. “Ser Mandon, open my betrothed’s hand.”

Sansa noticed Ser Mandon Moore glance cautiously at the Hound who had been resting his hand on the hilt of his sword since Joffrey arrived.

_I can’t let the Hound keep standing up for me. Joffrey is slow, but even he will eventually become suspicious._

Before the lifeless face of Ser Mandon could approach her, Sansa yielded, holding out her hand to give the necklace to Joffrey. The king seized the gift rapidly and slapped her hand away afterwards. 

“A _direwolf_?” he said disdainfully after inspecting the pendant. “The same beast that nearly killed me near the Trident?”

Tyrion sighed. “That’s her house’s sigil.”

Joffrey rolled his eyes and whined. “I know that, uncle!” Returning his gaze to her, he asked in far too kind of a manner, “Do you like your gift, my lady?” 

“Yes, Your Gr--”

Before Sansa could finish, Joffrey strode over to the ledge that overlooked the Blackwater Rush and tossed the necklace down, never to be found again. Her eyes shifted once again to the Hound’s sword belt, and she could hear the dagger begging to be planted inside Joffrey’s cruel face. Sansa even went so far as to lift her hand, but once Ser Mandon looked over at her, she let it fall to her side.

Joffrey returned with a smug grin and a swagger. “That pleased me, too.”

“That was ill done, nephew. You must apologize,” Tyrion chided.

The young king ignored him and strode towards the garden’s entrance. “Come, Ser Mandon. You, too, dog. I have a couple of dead whores that I need removed from my bedchamber before I give Lady Sansa her last gift tonight.”

Once Joffrey and Ser Mandon were out of sight, Sansa nearly fainted again when the Hound abruptly leaned down to plant the softest of kisses on her cheek. He strode away afterwards, as if nothing happened, and her hand lifted to the spot where his lips touched, caressing her skin, noticing that it now felt softer somehow. Tyrion had witnessed the Hound’s display of affection, as did Shae, and while her maid smiled fondly at her, the dwarf only stared in horror just before muttering, “Fuck.”

* * *

  
  


“Happy nameday, little dove. Perhaps this will be the year you bear me a grandchild. Wouldn’t that be lovely?” 

Sansa heard Tyrion chuckle contemptuously into his goblet as he drank. Cersei Lannister spoke it kindly, but the hate in her eyes seemed to increase tenfold with every word. “Yes, Your Grace,” she lied. 

“She will,” Joffrey declared as they dined at the rectangular, oaken table inside the solar, pointing at Sansa with his knife just after slicing a roast boar. “I’m taking her maidenhead tonight.” 

In an effort to ensure Sansa would not enjoy her nameday supper, Joffrey had brought in Ser Ilyn to stand beside him as they ate. The grim man’s eyes were on her the whole time, and each time she looked over at him, Sansa could hear the sound that her father’s sword, Ice, had made when it cut through his neck.

Behind her and on the far side of the solar, guarding the door, stood the Hound. Although Sansa could not see him, she knew he would be glaring at Joffrey after his comment.

 _Tyrion said the Hound loves me, and he didn’t deny it...and then he kissed me._ The memory made her smile.

Cersei eyed Sansa’s sudden look of bliss and raised an eyebrow before taking a long sip of her wine. “My love, we’ve spoken about this. The marriage will take place after the war. Once she is your wife, you can put as many children in her as you like.”

Joffrey scowled at her as he chewed. “Quiet, mother. It’s her nameday, and I’ll gift her with my seed as many times as it pleases me.” 

When she heard the Hound’s armor rattle behind her, she began to look over her shoulder. The attempt was ended, however, when Tyrion lightly placed his hand on her own and gave her a wary look. Sansa looked over at Joffrey and was relieved that he had not seen the gesture, but Ser Ilyn did, and his eyes pierced her harder.

“Drink with me then, nephew. For tonight, you become a man,” Tyrion said mockingly.

“I _am_ a man,” the king spat, “and I don’t care to drink with a dwarf.”

“Oh, come now, Joff. We’ve been sitting here for mere minutes, and I’ve already drunk more than you. Surely, _you,_ the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, can beat one dwarf at drinking.”

 _Tyrion wants him to get drunk,_ Sansa realized.

Cersei gave her brother a look of revulsion before tenderly looking at her son. “My darling, you do not--”

“I said quiet, mother!” Joffrey pouted and grabbed the goblet emblazoned with the lion of House Lannister and crowned stag of House Baratheon. “Behold, uncle,” the king said before swallowing the entirety of its contents with one long swig.

“Ah, impressive,” Tyrion said sarcastically. “Here, have another. I know I will.” The dwarf gestured for the serving girl to fill both goblets to the brim.

“Joffrey--”

“Mother, another word and I’ll have my dog see you out,” Joffrey threatened before downing the goblet once again. “More!” he yelled at the serving girl.

Tyrion gave Sansa a subtle smile, and she knew exactly what he intended on doing. _If Joffrey gets too drunk and passes out, he won’t be able to rape me tonight._

The drinking lingered on, and after another three goblets, Joffrey’s speech became slurred and his head grew heavy. However, while the wine would likely impede him from dishonoring her that night, it made him more merciless, and Sansa never thought that could be possible. 

“Lady Sansa,” he slurred derisively in between sips of the sweet red wine from the Arbor, “allow me to toast to your nameday.” Joffrey stood up clumsily from his seat and looked over his shoulder. “Serving wench, fill my goblet now, you bitch.”

“Oh dear,” Tyrion mumbled under his breath. The sight of Joffrey being belligerently drunk would have made Sansa laugh had Ser Ilyn not been fixated on her. The serving girl avoided eye contact with the king and quickly gave him more wine. Once his goblet was full again, Joffrey stumbled over to stand behind Sansa, leaning against her chair.

“To my lady’s fourteenth nameday,” he jumbled, lifting the goblet high into the air. 

Sansa looked up at him and said, “Fifteenth, Your Grace.” 

Towering above her, Joffrey sneered. “I don’t care, you whore.”

“Joffrey!” Cersei scolded. His mother’s reaction surprised Sansa more than Joffrey’s drunken slight. 

“Apologize to the lady, at once!” Tyrion demanded. 

Joffrey took a deep breath, and for the briefest of moments, Sansa thought he might actually beg her pardon. Instead, the golden goblet tipped over on her breasts, saturating her gown with the sweet red wine, the king snickering all the while.

Tyrion stood up abruptly and slapped him in the face. “She is your betrothed, and someday, your wife! How dare you, you fool! Do you want the poor girl to despise you?”

“I already do,” Sansa thought out loud. When Ser Ilyn’s stare grew fiercer, she realized what she had done, and then her hands rushed to cover her mouth. 

Whether it had been due to the endless torment on her nameday, or the culmination of it over the months she had been a prisoner in King’s Landing, the words had been spoken, and the room grew silent, silent enough for Sansa to hear the Hound’s armor shift again.

“What did you just say?” Joffrey spat behind her.

“Lady Sansa has consumed too much wine, my love. She is speaking nonsense,” Cersei interjected, almost nervously.

Joffrey stumbled back over to his chair, plopped down, looked at his mother, then at Sansa, and his face quivered with rage. “Ser Ilyn, rip out my betrothed’s tongue!”

“Have you gone mad?” Tyrion shouted. 

Ser Ilyn did not wait a second to approach. Sansa stood up dramatically from her chair, the spilled wine in her lap dripping onto the floor, crimson like blood. When she took a step back, she bumped into the Hound who had at some point rushed forward without her realizing.

Cersei rose from her chair just as quick and said, “Ser Ilyn, take my son to his bedchambers. He is unwell.” The gaunt man halted, unsure of who to listen to, but his glare never left Sansa.

“No, you bitch!” Joffrey yelled at his mother. “ _I_ am the king, and _I_ gave an order! I want her tongue out!”

A large arm wrapped around Sansa’s waist and pulled her away from the approaching horror of a man, the King’s Justice, a man who lived for nothing but killing.

Joffrey’s drunkenness led him to misinterpret the Hound’s motive, and said, “That’s right, dog, make sure that _whore_ can’t run away.”

“Take the lady to her chambers, Clegane,” Tyrion ordered.

“No! I want--” Joffrey’s drunken bellow was cut short by the impact of Tyrion’s hand.

“Enough, you raving lunatic!”

“Look at what you’ve done, brother,” Cersei spoke through gritted teeth. “This is all your fault. You’ve made my poor son drunk!”

“Drunk, yes, but I am not the one to blame for his unchecked sadistic streak! Clegane, take the girl, now!” Tyrion did not have to say another word before her feet left the ground, the Hound tossing her over his shoulder to exit the solar. 

Sansa could have walked, but the Hound made no effort in placing her down onto the ground. He carried her in silence, and once outside her door, he did not hesitate to enter her bedchamber like he had done earlier that day. Once the two were inside the dim room, the Hound shut the door with force, latched it, lowered her onto her feet, and grabbed her face with both of his hands.

“What in the seven bloody hells were you thinking?” he rasped.

Sansa was unable to lower her face due to his firm grip, so all she could do was shut her eyes and cry. “I’m sorry, I just--”

“You saw what he did to your father, you saw who swung the sword, and not one of us could have stopped him!”

Her voice was lost, replaced with relentless sobs that humiliated her more than being nude in front of him had.

“You could have died!” The Hound made a peculiar sound, so odd that Sansa’s eyes fluttered open, discovering a wetness in his eyes that could only be tears. 

_He’s not mad at me,_ Sansa realized, _he’s scared._

Words would have never been able to express how she felt in that moment. Of all the stories, songs, poems, and courtesies she knew, not a single one could convey the sensation inside her. It was not the same as before, not a mere feeling of temptation, but something deeper, something Sansa had never felt before. Where words would have failed her, her lips would not, and Sansa stood on her toes to feel her mouth press against his own, discovering that even the burnt side of his lips tasted sweeter than the wine staining her gown. 

The hands that had been tense on her face fell, meeting again in the small of her back to press her body against his. Even through the thickness of her stained gown, Sansa could feel his arousal pressing against her, and when an instinctive moan escaped her lips, Sandor Clegane released her at once, as if he feared he would go too far.

“Get dressed, little bird,” he said breathlessly.

Sansa stared at the Hound and wondered if she should tell him that she loved him. “Dressed?”

“It’s still your nameday, and I’m taking you riding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut is coming.


	3. Chapter 3

“Fucking hells, another dead whore, Clegane?” she heard the voice of Meryn Trant ask. “That’s the fourth one today.”

Wrapped in a thick linen shroud from head to toe, Sansa played the part of one of Joffrey’s dead whores while the Hound carried her over his shoulder in an attempt to sneak her out of the Red Keep.

“Bring the whore here,” his Kingsguard brother said eagerly, “let me see the damage done on this one.”

“Bugger off,” the Hound growled, maintaining his quick pace.

In the darkness of the shroud, Sansa heard Ser Meryn give a derisive grunt. “What’s the hurry, Clegane? Off to fuck her corpse?”

“No, but I’ll fuck yours if you don’t shut your cunt mouth.”

Sansa had to suppress the urge to giggle; it was reckless, utterly mad what the two were doing, the highborn eldest daughter of Eddard Stark sneaking out with one of the most dangerous fighters in Westeros. But after the few moments her and the Hound had spent together that day, Sansa would have risked it all for him, just as he was doing for her.

“Fuck you then, you ugly bastard,” Meryn Trant spat only when the Hound had walked a safe enough distance away. “Enjoy fucking your whore.”

 _They are all scared of him,_ Sansa thought. _All except me._

“You all right in there, girl?” Sandor muttered under his breath.

Because she had to be wrapped tightly to ensure that her gown would not slip out from the shroud, there was no way for her to breathe in fresh air. That, in addition to the thrill of leaving the city to ride with the Hound in the Kingswood, knowing what it would mean if they were caught, left Sansa feeling rather faint. However, she would _truly_ need to be a corpse on his shoulder before she allowed herself to miss out on the experience.

Sansa whispered as quietly as she could and said, “Yes.” A large hand patted her ass in response, and the thrill intensified.

Minutes later, the Hound halted and Sansa could hear the braying of horses. The stables that late in the evening were lightly guarded with one man of the City Watch from what Sansa could discern. When the gold cloak questioned what he was doing, it only took one snarl from the Hound before she heard the man’s footsteps receding with haste. 

“We can only take my horse, little bird,” he whispered, but he did not have to. Sansa knew he would never be able to exit the gates of King’s Landing with two horses, not unless he wanted the guards to grow suspicious and take a look at his cargo. “And I’ll need to toss you over the saddle,” he added. Somehow, Sansa hadn’t managed to think of _that._

“Oh, all right,” she said apprehensively. Sansa felt the vibrations of the Hound’s chuckle at that.

He carried her through the stables and stopped once he met his warhorse. Remembering the fierce nature of his black stallion, as fierce as his owner’s, Sansa became anxious, especially after hearing the courser braying just beside her. “Easy,” he said to the horse who was sniffing fervently over her body. “He’d be happier if you really were a corpse.”

“If I’m wrapped in here much longer, I might just become one,” she groaned. Sandor erupted with laughter, not the snarling laugh he often gave, but a genuine, warm laugh that proved that he was only a man, not the monster the Known World thought he was.

Gently, he laid her on her belly across the horse’s saddle. Sansa was glad she had not eaten much at supper, else she would have certainly become sick. The courser calmed and nickered once she was crudely secured, and then Sandor mounted up to sit behind her, resting one firm hand on her back while his other took the reins. Although the stallion departed from the stables in a much gentler walk than she had anticipated, Sansa still whimpered at the movement, instigating the Hound to pat her ass again, this time harder. “Quiet, little bird.” His hand remained there as they rode, stirring the same sensations she had felt when her shoulder brushed against his side that morning, and Sansa wondered how it would feel to have him touch her there without the thick barrier of the gown and shroud. 

The castle seemed eerily quiet, and Sansa did not hear a single voice as they exited the Red Keep aside from the Hound’s growling at the gold cloak to open the gate. Another moment later they reached the southern gate of King’s Landing, the River Gate, which would lead out onto the Blackwater Rush, and finally, to their destination -- the Kingswood on the southern shore.

“Is that the bloody _Hound_?” she heard one of the City Watch men bellow. 

“Aye,” another said disdainfully. “What business have you here, dog?” 

“Our king would like his target practice to serve as fodder for the beasts inside the Kingswood,” the Hound lied. 

“Bloody hell,” the gold cloak gasped. “I didn’t believe it when I first heard it. Is he really up on that hill killing whores?”

“Whores and buggering gold cloaks who don’t open the gate,” he rasped.

There was a brief silence before the man said, “Let’s see her then, Hound.”

Sansa’s heart stilled, and she thought she just might become sick after all.

The Hound’s hand pressed firmer into her ass. “Open the bloody gate, or it’ll be you I toss over my saddle and throw into the Kingswood.”

When she heard steady footsteps approaching, Sansa began to silently pray. “I want to see the whore.”

The sound of steel exiting its scabbard tore the air. “Touch her, and I fucking kill you.”

The gold cloak boomed with laughter. “Ah, I see. She was one of _your_ whores. Which one? I’ve seen you at Chataya’s brothel enough times to know which slut you preferred, Dancy is it?”

Sansa nearly stirred at that, and though she had no right to be, she was furious, even more so than she had been when Tyrion made mention of it in the gardens.

“No, it can’t be her,” another man said. “I just had her before I came here.”

“That blonde, Marei, then? Gods, that girl is too glum for me to fuck. However, I suppose you are used to them being miserable and quiet with you, eh Hound?” he chuckled.

“Say one more fucking name, I dare you,” Sandor snarled. 

_How many more are there to say?_

“Oh, let him bury his whore,” interjected a gold cloak, “or feed her to the bloody beasts for all I care. I’ll not get into a brawl over a dead whore.”

The footsteps stopped and she heard the man sigh. “Open the gates!”

She would have exhaled if she could, although the conversation at the gate lingered on her mind. Once they pressed forward through the gates, Sandor veered to the right and another several minutes passed before he pulled on the reins, dismounted, and lifted her off the saddle. His hands dug into the shroud, loosening the fabric and finally, releasing Sansa back into the world; no air tasted so pleasant. Sansa saw that the stars and moon were bright in the jet sky as the hour grew late. The Hound had taken them behind an emptied ramshackle building in the shadows along the wall, facing towards a wharf that did not have a single boat docked. Sansa knew that her thick auburn hair looked a fright, and she could feel that her face was flushed, but the Hound’s grey eyes lit up as bright as the stars above once he saw her.

“How awful do I look?”

He shook his head and bored a gentle smile. “You look beautiful.” The only time Sansa heard such a word leave Sandor Clegane’s mouth was when he talked about killing. 

_Don’t say it,_ she told herself, _don’t be a petty child._

“As beautiful as Dancy and Marei?”

The Hound’s smile fell, and he even looked remorseful. “Little bird--”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” she lied, turning away towards the quay. _Fifteen, and still a stupid child_. “Where do we go now?”

“Sansa, wait.”

Her name sounded far more elegant when it came from the Hound; a large hand fell on her shoulder, turning her around and taking her in his arms, pressing her body against his as just as he had done in her bedchamber.

He sighed. “The brothels--”

“I said it doesn’t matter,” she repeated. Yet as her hands were pressed against his chest, Sansa found herself wondering just how many other women had felt his muscle, his strength, even if it was only a transaction.

Sandor Clegane took one hand to lift up her chin up to face him. “I frequent brothels, girl. That’s the ugly truth.”

The admission pushed Sansa to the verge of tears. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you should know the truth about me.”

“You’re a man,” she tried to reason with herself, “that’s what men do.”

“Not a man worthy of you.” He gave her a pitiful look and said, “I kissed you in the gardens, but I shouldn’t have. I took that kiss from you in your bedchamber, but I never deserved it. You don’t know what I am, because if you did, you’d have never come here.” 

“Yes, I would have,” Sansa said defiantly. 

“No, you wouldn’t, little bird,” he said hopelessly. “You’d hate me, and now, you're slowly starting to. You heard what the dwarf said in the gardens, you heard what those men said at the fucking gate.”

Sansa tried to lower her gaze to keep the mistiness of her eyes hidden, but the Hound only lifted her chin higher. “I don’t--”

“I kill people, girl. I’ve cut children down for no reason other than Joffrey ordering me to. I drink as much as that fucking dwarf; I’ve lost count how many times I’ve passed out in some bloody winesink. And yes, I fuck whores, and I’ve fucked a lot of them. Now, go on and tell me you don’t hate me.”

Her vision blurred, and the tears fell, but before she could wipe them away, his fingers were brushing the cheek that he had kissed mere hours ago.

“The dwarf was right, little bird -- I love you, and no amount of killing, drinking, or fucking can change that. All I wanted to do was make you happy, even if for only one bloody day, but kissing you, taking you out of this wretched city, that’s all been for me, not you. So tell me right now and tell it true, do you want me to take you back now that you know what I am?”

_He could tell me he is going to kill me in the Kingswood, and I still wouldn’t want to go back. Just like everyone else, he sees himself as a monster. Yet there is nothing he could say that will convince me of that. He loves me..._

Lifting the hand that had been pressed against the firmness of his chest, Sansa brushed the scars on his face with her fingertips and felt the envy dissipate. “I love you.” 

The Hound exhaled much like he had done outside of her bedchamber, and Sansa knew it was relief he felt. The moonlight seemed to shift in that moment, reflecting off the Blackwater Rush and illuminating his face, the tears in his eyes glistening, and before she could admire his features any longer, his forehead pressed against hers, and their lips met.

The embrace was much like first, yet somehow different. The love they had for one another was no longer unspoken, and the knowledge of this kindled their already burning desire. _No,_ she understood, _no woman has ever had him like this._ Sansa would have given herself to him right there had his stallion not started to frighten. All at once, the man she loved pulled her behind him, unsheathing a dagger as a man approached from a nearby quay.

He was a rugged man, appearing to be her late father’s age, wearing damp garb, and even in the paleness of the moonlight, Sansa could see the overexposure from the sun on his skin, tanned and spotted. He held up his hands softly in defense and slowed his pace. “I command the ferry; do the two of you need passage across the river?”

“Us, and the horse,” the Hound said. “Do you like gold?”

“Aye,” he said, squinting at Sansa as she peeked around Sandor’s arm. “She’s a pretty one.”

“And you’ll be a dead one if you don’t get us onto the southern shore of that river.”

The common man ignored his threat. “I was there the day they beheaded your father, m’lady.”

The Hound moved forward, his dagger glimmering in the moonlight to rest against the man’s throat. “Perhaps I should just kill you and take the ferry myself.”

“Sandor, no!” she blurted. 

Sandor looked over his shoulder, disbelief in his eyes. _I’ve never called him by his name before,_ she realized, _and no name has felt sweeter on my tongue._

“Put the dagger down, Sandor,” she said, tasting the name again, “please.”

In awe with his name leaving her lips, Sandor lowered the blade down slowly, and afterwards, paced back to stand beside her with one arm wrapping protectively around her shoulders. The rugged man seemed unfazed by Sandor’s threat and said, “What that cruel bastard did to your father, the honorable Eddard Stark, he’ll burn in all seven hells for that. Lord Stark was no traitor, and neither am I. I’ll have my men take you across, m’lady, not for gold, but for your father, and not one of us will speak of it afterwards.”

It was almost too good to be true; Sansa wondered if somehow her father had sent this man to her on her nameday to take her away from the abuses she faced in King’s Landing, even if it was with the Hound.

Once the River Gate started to open again, several gold cloaks exiting to make their rounds, the man led them to the ferry docked at the end of the nearby quay. When Sansa boarded, the ferrymen, many of whom had been sleeping, quickly woke and stared at her in shock. “Lie down, little bird,” Sandor said as the gold cloaks paced closer towards the quay. His horse was stubborn when getting on, and it had been another couple minutes before the ferrymen were in position to transport them across. However, they departed without any further confrontation, and were off to approach the Kingswood.

After Sandor sat beside her on the wooden deck, Sansa shifted over to rest her head on his lap and stared up at him fondly. His fingers tenderly combed through her long hair, making her drowsy, until a thought passed through her mind. “How will you sneak me back into King’s Landing?”

In the final hours of her nameday, Sandor Clegane leaned forward just enough to kiss her underneath the moonlight and stars that seemed to glow brighter with him.

“I’m not going to,” he said resolutely, “not ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied...smut is coming next chapter. Forgive me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut that was promised.

Sansa had never been on the southern shore of the Blackwater Rush, yet it felt more like home to her than King’s Landing ever did. The earth she stood on was somehow as familiar as Winterfell, and the Kingswood ahead as welcoming as the godswood.

As she braided her long auburn hair in preparation for the ride, Sansa turned to the ferryman. “Thank you, truly.”

The rugged man gave a warm smile and said, “I’ll wait for your return, m’lady.”

“She won’t be returning,” Sandor said absolutely while tightening Stranger’s saddle.

The ferryman looked thankful to hear that and gave a courteous nod. “Good. When the bastard’s men come searching, it won’t be us who say a word, and it won’t be my ferry they cross on.”

Sansa found herself giving the middle aged man a hug. “I’ll never forget it.”

When he patted her back, it reminded her of her father, consoling and tender. “Your brother, the Young Wolf, will win the war. Until then, be safe, m’lady.”

Once she pulled away from the gentle embrace, Sandor grabbed her waist to lift her onto the saddle and mounted right behind her, taking the reins. “Are you ready, little bird?” he asked, almost provocatively. 

It hit her all at once then, sitting atop the Hound’s horse past the Blackwater Rush with nothing but the Kingswood in the distance. _I’m free._

“Yes,” she exhaled. The warhorse pressed forward in a gallop and Sansa’s hand clutched onto one of Sandor’s muscled thighs, her grip tightening not out of fear, nor to balance herself, but to make sure the moment was real. _If I wake from this,_ she thought, _I’ll leap from my window in the Red Keep. How could I ever return to being a prisoner, a slave, a toy to be beaten for Joffrey’s amusement, when I have tasted freedom with_ **_him_** _?_

Several minutes they had ridden into the deep night before approaching the edge of the Kingswood. Once the trees grew thicker and the brush became taller, Sandor pulled on the reins to slow Stranger down to a walk, passing through the consuming darkness with nothing other than the moonlight guiding them. Sandor removed one hand from the reins to brush her braid over her right shoulder, allowing him to eagerly place a kiss onto the left side of her neck. Her nipples hardened underneath her bodice at the touch.

“Do you like it?” he breathed seductively against her skin.

The hand resting on his thigh tensed from the sensation. “It feels so good,” she moaned. 

He even laughed seductively. “The Kingswood, little bird.”

“Oh, yes,” Sansa said with her eyes closed, savoring the way his unkempt facial hair scratched against her skin.

His singular touch left her, and he quietly said, “We can’t stay long, girl. At dawn, every bloody gold cloak will be looking for us. We’ll have to ride all night.”

Sansa was breathless from the embrace and had to wait a few seconds before responding. “Ride where?” 

“West, and then north.”

Turning as far as she could in the saddle, she faced him and asked, “North?”

“Aye. You may have lost your father, but you still have a mother, and she’ll want you returned,” he explained. There was sadness, a haunting sorrow in his voice.

 _My mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon, perhaps even Arya...reunited with my family, at last. But what about_ **_him_** _?_

“Will you stay?” Sansa asked quietly.

“Sansa,” he sighed defeatedly, the name ever-more beautiful leaving the mouth she once thought to be cruel, “I’d never be able to stay. Your king brother would have my bloody head before that's like to happen.”

There was an extended silence before Sansa said, “I won’t let him...I’ll tell him I love you.”

The Hound roared with laughter, scaring away several small critters that rested inside the brush. “You do that, little bird, and it won’t just be my head he snips off.” Sansa remained silent after that. _No, I won’t let mother and Robb send him away,_ she thought. _How could they when he risked his life for me, turning against the Lannisters, a family he has served for years, all just to take me home?_

Her thoughts were interrupted once his mouth returned to the side of her neck, losing herself to the erotic touch. A calloused hand grabbed her throat firmly and sent a shock so potent between her legs that she moaned. Just as he had done in her bedchamber, he abruptly released her after her cry of pleasure. _He wants me, that much is for certain, so why does he stop?_ Sansa wondered.

Another moment passed before they were deep inside the Kingswood, thick in the brush, and Sandor pulled on the reins to a halt before dismounting onto the grass. 

“Why have we stopped?” Sansa asked, still flustered from his hand encapsulating her throat.

Wrapping his hands around the small of her waist, Sandor lifted her down before tying Stranger to a nearby tree. “I need to pi-- relieve myself,” he said.

Sansa giggled. “Oh, are you proper now?”

Once the stallion was secured, he stood in front of her, his massive size stirring the same crude thoughts from that morning. “No, but you are,” he said. “Now go on-- turn around, proper little lady.”

Begrudgingly, Sansa turned and walked away a few paces to give him privacy, but when she heard the sound of him tugging at his trousers, her desire and curiosity became unrelenting. Killing the proper little lady, Sansa turned around to watch as the Hound stood with his back to her, one hand pressed against the tree beside him, while the other pulled out his manhood. Slowly and quietly, Sansa lifted her hands to unclasp her thin cloak, letting it fall into the grass about her feet, followed by pulling loose the laces on her bodice. The Hound never suspected a thing.

“My mother always tells people that I was a lady at three,” Sansa said softly as she slid her arms out of the sleeves, goose pimples rising on her skin, “always so courteous.”

The Hound chuckled as he relieved himself. “You are, little bird.”

Using both hands, Sansa slid the jade gown past her hips, allowing it to fall into the brush, the weight of it making the damp grass sigh. She slipped her boots off as silently as possible followed by teasing the edge of her smallclothes with her fingers, sliding them down her slender legs. “And eager to please.” Sansa watched his head lift up slowly, removing his hand from the tree to place his manhood back inside his trousers. As if he feared what he would see, the Hound turned around hesitantly to discover that she was as naked as her nameday, _on_ her nameday, once again.

Unlike that morning, Sandor made no effort to refrain from staring at her round breasts, nor the curls between her legs that were illuminated by the pale rays of moonlight, and his grey eyes grew darker, ravenous; Sansa’s heart could not have beated faster. “Is it _your_ nameday,” he spoke low and harsh as he took a step towards her, a predator on the prowl, “or mine?” 

Sansa was smitten with his response, and a kittenish smile formed on her lips. Although she had no experience with pleasing a man, there was an inner voice that guided her, an instinct that seemed to be reserved solely for him, Sandor Clegane. Disregarding her worries and doubts, she sauntered towards him, her feet chilled by the dew in the grass, and said, “I would like one last gift for my nameday.”

“Bloody fucking hell,” he exhaled with bewilderment, halting in place to fixate his eyes on her breasts that would bounce with every step she took.

When she stood one pace away from him, she stilled, and as soft as the wind, she said, “You.”

A muscled hand grabbed her slender one to pull her against his chest, her nipples pressing into his solid armor. “I’d fuck you until dawn,” he growled. 

Sansa let her hands go where they wanted to, and they traveled to the stiffness inside his trousers. “I want you to.”

A guttural sigh escaped him once her fingers slid inside. “I’d hurt you, girl. I wouldn’t be able to control myself, not with you.”

“You’re the only one who has never hurt me; it’s my nameday, and I want you to have me right here,” Sansa said, her breathing growing jagged once she felt the warmth of his length in her palm. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

The Hound moaned agonizingly before snatching her wrist with his hand. “Gods, you’re a _maiden_ ,” he said in despair. “I’m taking you home, and when you’re back, you’ll wish you had waited to give it to someone else.”

Acting on the instincts that were bred for him, Sansa pressed her lips against his mouth and caressed his scarred lips with her tongue. “If I can’t give it to you, I’ll never give it to anyone,” she whispered. “They’ll have to take it.”

Upon uttering the words, the predator inside Sandor Clegane returned, and his hands fell onto the curve of her bare ass, no longer buried underneath the thickness of the shroud and gown. His grip was not gentle as it had been that morning when he pulled her from the bed-- it was vicious, raw, desperate, and Sansa knew in that moment that turning back was no longer an option. _And I never want it to be,_ she thought elatedly, _I’ll never go back._

Lifting her into his arms, Sandor carried her to where the grass was the thickest and laid her onto her back, the thin, dewy blades tickling every inch of her fair skin. Towering over her, she watched as the Hound ripped off his armor like it was mere fabric and felt the arousal dripping from her folds, down her ass, and onto the earth. When he tore his tunic off, Sansa was awestruck, much like he had been with her; his broad, scarred chest was covered with the same dark hair on his head, but coarser, thicker. The muscles underneath his skin seemed to be infinite, and as his breathing became rampant, each one in his chest flexed with the movement. The instinct spoke to her again, urging her hand to travel onto the spot drenched with her arousal, the fluid warmer than the humid earth beneath her. 

The Hound grinned wickedly as he watched her. “Does the little bird like what she sees?” 

“You’re perfect,” she breathed, teasing her entrance with her fingers.

Sandor lowered himself on top her, and his dark hair fell into her face as their sharp breaths mingled. When she placed her free hand on his chest, Sansa discovered that his heartbeat was hammering inside. “You’re more bloody beautiful than any woman that is, was, or ever will be,” he spoke throatily, “and you’re mine.” Just as she lifted her head to kiss him, he lowered his mouth onto her hardened nipple, keenly licking from her breasts to her belly, and then lower and lower…

“Oh, gods,” she cried.

“I’ve never done this for a whore,” Sandor growled against her folds, “not a single one.” When his tongue met her, her legs trembled wildly, and Sansa pressed herself onto her elbows to watch what was being done to her; the Hound was feasting on her, running the length of his tongue up and down her sex and grunting with satisfaction while eating her juices. Sansa couldn’t decide what aroused her more-- _feeling_ his mouth lick inside her folds or _watching_ him do it enthusiastically. Between the sight and touch, Sansa felt the heat inside her core burn deeper, and soon, a wave of pleasure drowned her. The climax forced her to drop her back onto the lush grass and tangle her fingers into his hair. The cries of bliss escaping her mouth startled his horse, and she even heard birds in the canopy of trees above flutter away. 

Once her moans subsided, Sandor lifted her from the earth and placed her onto his lap, sitting with his back pressed against a tree. “You taste better than any bloody wine,” he panted while pulling his trousers down. Sansa could smell the sweetness of her sex on his breath and kissed him to taste it. Her mouth salivated.

Although she had grown faint from her previous release, she found the strength to sit between his legs and assist him in undressing. When his cock shot out, her eyes widened, and her mouth gaped open. _He’s half a giant,_ she thought. Sansa craved to please him with her mouth just as he had done for her, but before she could he pulled her back onto his lap with her legs straddling him.

“I saw the way you looked at me this morning, little bird,” he muttered heavily into her ear, gripping the length of her rich auburn braid with one hand. “When I asked if you wanted to ride, you were thinking of this, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” she moaned against his scars.

“If you knew what I thought of doing to you when I took you out of your bed this morning, if you could see what filthy thoughts passed through my mind once I saw those perky teats of yours just staring at me, you’d steal my horse and ride right back towards that river and beg them to let you back in.” One hand slapped the roundness of her ass, sending a pulsating throb in between her legs, and instinctively, her hips started to grind against his lap. His cock was solid and warm against the crease of her ass, and each time she rocked herself over the coarseness of the dark hair surrounding his length, Sansa could hear the wet sounds of her arousal saturating it. She may have already had her release, but the lust for him lived on, demanding to have more of him, all of him.

“I want you inside me,” she whimpered against his mouth.

Sandor Clegane bit her lip until she tasted blood. “Go on, girl, ride me.” His burly hands lifted her ass into the air, allowing him to guide the head of his cock outside her yearing entrance before sliding in until met with the resistance of her maiden sex. 

“Oh,” she gasped at the pain, wondering if his size would even fit inside of her; just the tip of his length pressing inside her walls made her feel like she was being ripped in half.

When she paused, the Hound groaned. “Bloody fucking hell, burning alive would hurt less than you wanting to stop.”

Sansa bit her lip and persisted, easing herself down until a tearing sensation made itself present. “Never, I’ll never want to stop,” she said in one breath. The steady descent onto his cock may have mitigated the pain for her, but it seemed to intensify it for him as his patience wore thin. Once Sansa saw him digging his hands into the earth, ripping into the grass and dirt as if it were as thin as fresh snow, she discarded the approach of taking it slow and pressed herself down in one fluid motion, filling her insides with the entirety of Sandor’s length and crying all the while.

It burned, stung, pierced, and ached as their bodies became one, yet it was more beautiful than the songs. Just as she was meant for him, he was meant for her, and Sansa knew that no other man could complete her the way he did. Although the descent was painful, she was saved by the slickness that continued to develop inside of her, facilitating the effort of giving Sandor Clegane her maidenhead. Sitting there, impaled on his cock, Sansa whimpered into his shoulder and bit down onto his skin. The taste of the sweat triggered her walls to squeeze around him, causing them to moan together in unison. Pressing her knees into the grass, softer than any featherbed in the heat of the moment, Sansa lifted herself and winced at the emptiness that followed, the absence of him now more painful than when he broke inside. The void was so excruciating that Sansa quickly lowered herself back onto him, her sex yielding, surrendering to his girth. Once her ass touched his thighs, she pushed herself up again, and then lowered herself down even faster. The burning, stinging, piercing, and aching began to ebb as she rode him, and her pleasure flowed. 

Sandor quickly recognized her growing comfortability once her pace quickened and removed his hands that had been ripping into the earth to wrap around her breasts that had been brushing against the dark mat of hair on his chest. He dropped his head to place her pink nipple inside his mouth, licking, biting, and sucking as she rode him, her body responding by clenching around him tighter, forcing sharp whimpers to escape her mouth. 

The Hound grunted triumphantly against her breast. “You like that, little bird.” It wasn’t a question; his mouth engulfed over her nipple and took half her breast into his mouth, grazing his teeth against her flesh. Sansa cried out and her pace slowed until his hands left her breasts to grab either side of her hips, rolling her over to lay onto her back. His cock was pressed deep inside of her all the while.

“Oh gods, Sandor,” Sansa exhaled in between erratic breaths. 

“I told you I wouldn’t be able to control myself with you,” he snarled against her mouth, fiercer than any animal in the Kingswood. “I’ll fuck you until you bloody hate me.”

Sansa brushed her hand down the ruined half of his face and felt her sex squeeze once again from the sensation of running her delicate fingers down his deep scars. Sandor did not waste another second before pounding himself inside of her, the sounds of his beating likely audible from a league away. He tried kissing her as he thrusted, but his rampant moans prevented him from keeping his lips on hers. When he slowed, Sansa thought he might have finished, but instead he pressed himself up and lowered one hand to her sex, placing two fingers just above where his cock rested inside. Sandor’s thrusts became slower, more intimate, as he circled the tips of his fingers on the firm nub in between her folds, leading Sansa to instinctively grab onto her breasts from the pleasure while the Hound watched her intently from above. 

“Sandor, I’m--” Her climax came all at once and when it did, she grabbed his face and pulled his lips down onto hers, the taste of him, _her_ on him, taking the last of her breath away. “I think I’m going to faint,” she whimpered as she was coming down from her peak. 

The Hound sat back against the tree once more and grabbed one delicate hand to lift her back onto his lap. “No, little bird, you wanted to ride.”

And so she did. Though every part inside of her ached, her previous climaxes creating a sort of drowsiness she had never felt before, Sansa placed his length inside her once more and grinded in his lap, circling her hips to stir his cock into the mixture of her arousal fluids and maiden’s blood. His hands fell onto her waist quite abruptly, squeezing into her skin so hard that the bruising would surely be instant. And Sansa would wear each of them with pride.

If she thought her name was the sweetest sound to leave his lips, she was wrong; the sound he made when he peaked had been the most terrifying, exhilarating, and thrilling groan she had ever heard, reinvigorating her carnal desires. The feeling of his seed shooting inside of her was so euphoric that once his moans drowned out, his cock pulsating against her walls, Sansa grinded her hips to experience it all over again.

“Seven bloody hells,” he panted, throwing his head back against the tree with force.

“I don’t ever want to stop,” Sansa said weakly.

“Bloody hell,” the Hound groaned in agony again. “You’re not a little bird, you’re a bloody wolf.” His hand pinched the small of her neck and brought her mouth onto his, kissing her fervently before tossing his head back in exhaust. “In half an hour, I’m going to wake up, fuck you bloody one more time, and then we need to head north before dawn.”

“North,” she repeated breathlessly against his lips, “with you.”

“Aye, girl, with me.”

  
  


* * *

Sansa watched as dawn broke.

When the warm-hued light seeped through trees of the Kingswood far off on the horizon, Sansa drowsily lifted her face off Sandor Clegane’s shoulder as he slept, his cock still resting inside of her. As she watched, she discovered that the light in the distance did not rise -- it pressed forward. 

_Not dawn,_ she realized. _Fire. Torches._

Sansa shook the Hound’s shoulders abruptly, “Sandor, wake up!” As he stirred underneath her, she counted to two before hooves hitting the earth in the distance grew audible, followed by a man shouting an order.

 _I’ll die here on the day after my fifteenth nameday,_ she accepted. _I’ll die here in the Kingswood, not on the gallows, not on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, but here with Sandor Clegane still inside of me. And I’ll die happier than I ever lived._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know -- angst is my thing. Before you get angry with me, wait for the next (and last) chapter. It might be you won't hate me afterall.


	5. Chapter 5

Master and horse alike stirred furiously in the Kingswood at the onset of the approaching men. In the span of mere seconds, Sandor Clegane pulled up his trousers, eased his horse, unsheathed his longsword, and awaited the three riders.

Since Sansa had disrobed several paces away, her gown and smallclothes resting uselessly in the grass, she quickly crawled over and reached for Sandor’s tunic that lay beside her, damp from the midnight dew, and draped it over her head. The length of it covered her thighs as she kneeled onto the earth, but her nipples poked through the thin fabric, and the collar was so wide that it fell off her shoulders. _What does it matter?_ Sansa thought. _What is the need for modesty if I am to die?_

The men were too close to hope for an escape, but the odds were not entirely out of their favor. Sansa had witnessed how the Hound fought off the mob the day Myrcella departed for Dorne, and she knew that he could best three men in a fight, depending on _which_ three men they were. 

As she knelt beside the tree that had only recently witnessed their lovemaking, the men approached. Sansa watched anxiously as the flames from the torches lit up their faces, but found immediate solace once their features became discernable.

Ahorse in the Kingswood during the hour of the wolf, the darkest part of night, Tyrion Lannister, a sellsword named Bronn, and a young squire named Podrick Payne halted in the clearing. While Sansa felt relieved they were not the gold cloaks, or even worse, a drunken Joffrey with his crossbow, the Hound found no such repose, and his sword remained primed to kill.

Squinting and holding his torch out towards her, Sansa watched as Tyrion discovered she was kneeling onto the ground wearing only Sandor’s tunic that fell off one pale shoulder, and his face became panic-stricken. “Dear gods, Clegane, what have you done?” he asked in a breath. Sansa thought he would fall off his horse.

“Want me to kill him?” the tall sellsword asked casually.

Sansa stood up from the grass abruptly and shouted, “No!” It had been the first time she stood since their lovemaking and the debilitating tenderness of her sex made her wince. Dripping down her thighs and onto her ankles was the mixture of her arousal, her maiden’s blood, and Sandor’s seed. Tyrion’s face grew pale.

“You took Sansa Stark’s maidenhead,” he said incredulously. “Joffrey will mutilate the both of you if he finds out.”

The Hound spat on the grass without dropping his sword an inch. “Can’t do shite if we’re gone, and gone we will be, dwarf.”

“ _Gone?_ ” 

“I’m going north with Sandor,” she interjected.

Sansa couldn’t tell if Tyrion was taken aback more by the mention of returning home or by referring to the Hound using his given name. “Lady Sansa, you mustn't,” he pleaded. “The prize for your return to King’s Landing will be outrageous; every man in Westeros who is not a lackwit will be searching for you to claim it. If you manage to not be killed while being incarcerated, _imagine_ what Joffrey will do to you once you return. It’s not too late, we will get you back in the gates before your absence is noted, but it _must_ be now.”

“I won’t,” Sansa said without hesitancy, her hands clutching onto the tree, “I’ll never go back.”

“Let her go, Imp,” Bronn said. “She’s got the bloody Hound.”

“Who plans on ransoming her back to her family, defiling her all the while,” the dwarf added.

“I’m not ransoming her, you dumb cunt,” Sandor scoffed.

Tyrion frowned. “But you _are_ defiling her, a highborn lady. Robb Stark will feed you to his wolf for that alone.”

“I won’t let him,” Sansa chimed in. “Joffrey is the one who would defile me, rape me, hurt me. I’d rather die than go back.”

The dwarf sighed and gestured towards his squire. “Pod, pick up the lady’s clothes. And Bronn…”

He didn’t have to finish giving the order before the thin, black-haired man dismounted his horse, and unsheathed his longsword, pressing his torch deep into the dew to snuff out the flames, producing a small cloud of grey smoke. Sansa’s bold instincts that had guided her in giving herself to Sandor returned just then, and without giving it a single thought, she ran forward to stand in front of the Hound before either man could swing their steel.

Sandor’s arm wrapped around her waist to pull her aside, but she clenched onto him and refused to let go. Bronn lowered the tip of his longsword onto the grass and impatiently stomped his foot, waiting for Sansa to be removed from his target. “Let go, girl,” the Hound mumbled, eager for the kill. She clenched onto his arm tighter in response.

“Lady Sansa, this is asinine,” Tyrion said atop his horse. “You are a highborn lady, and he is the king’s sworn shield. I give you my word that I will speak with Cersei and convince her to annul your betrothal; perhaps Joffrey can wed the Tyrell widow instead. However, you cannot go galavanting about Westeros with _him._ You’re the eldest daughter of a lord still widely respected despite Joffrey’s lies; you’ll have many suitors-- _highborn_ suitors. If you leave King’s Landing, you will be throwing your life away.”

“M---my lord,” the young squire cut in sheepishly.

Tyrion groaned and rolled his eyes. “What is it, Podrick?”

“Per--perhaps...well, perhaps--”

“Any day now, Pod,” Tyrion said impatiently.

The squire took in a deep breath and in one exhale said, “Perhaps you can empathize with Lady Sansa.”

The dwarf furrowed his brow at the boy, the flames from the torch he held sharpening his features, causing his expression to become a terrifying grimace. “ _Empathize_?”

“Well my lord, you have--you have--”

Bronn snorted with laughter. “You’re a bold lad,” he said to Podrick before turning his attention to Tyrion. “He’s referring to your whore.”

Sansa watched as Tyrion’s face became mottled with anger. “Do not call her that.”

“The Imp has a whore, does he?” Sandor said mockingly. “I’ve never known him _not_ to have a whore.”

“And neither have I you,” Tyrion quipped.

Bronn chuckled. It seemed to her that the sellsword was enjoying the petty bickering. “Unlike you, Imp, the Hound doesn’t love his whores, do you, you ugly fucker?”

Remaining clenched onto Sandor’s arm, Sansa could feel his muscles flex, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword impossibly tight. “I’ve never loved a bloody whore.”

Podrick leaned down to pick up her gown and smallclothes off the grass and blushed, dropping them once he realized Sandor was scowling at him. “M-- my lord, much like you love--”

“Much like I love Shae, I should empathize with Lady Sansa loving Sandor fucking Clegane,” Tyrion finished forlornly for the stumbletongued boy.

“Shae?” Sansa gasped. “My chambermaid? She’s a--”

“A whore,” Tyrion admitted. “And I, a lord, love her.” He shook his head and glared at his squire. “You clever lad.”

The boy dropped his head. “I’m s-sorry, my lord, I--”

“That’s enough, Pod. You’ve stuttered a sufficient amount for one night-- get back on your horse. You, too, Bronn. The seven hells will break loose at dawn, and I intend on becoming marvelously drunk before then.”

It wasn’t until then did Sansa realize that she had been holding her breath and gave a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you, my lord.”

Tyrion pulled out a flask of water and drowned the head of the flames on his torch with it, tossing the extinguished wooden handle into the brush afterwards. “Lady Sansa, I wish you an uneventful journey home.” He reached into his saddle bag and tossed a pouch towards her. Sansa’s reflexes were slow, but the Hound’s were not, and he caught it in a blur, the gold inside producing a loud _clink._ “Consider it a final nameday gift, my lady; my dear nephew did toss the other into oblivion. I only hope you live long enough to see the next.”

“You truly think I’m so bloody incapable that I cannot take her back to her family?” Sandor snapped.

The lord gave a grim expression and said, “No, however, I also do not doubt the capabilities of others you may encounter during your travels-- your brother, namely.”

“The Mountain That Rides,” Bronn spoke tauntingly atop his horse. “Word is the big fucker is still in the Riverlands.”

Sandor grunted and tossed his sword onto the ground, wrapping his arms protectively around Sansa’s waist. “Bugger him. Not even he can stop me. I’ll take the girl where she belongs.”

Tyrion Lannister shook his head one last time before giving her a smile of pure misery and utter hopelessness. “Farewell, Lady Sansa. May your old gods be with you.” He urged his horse to a walk but halted suddenly to look over his shoulder. “And Clegane, find the young lady moon tea and keep it on hand should you continue to torture the poor girl. I’ve met Lady Catelyn Stark as well as her impulsive sister; I fear what _they_ would do to you should your seed quicken in Sansa’s womb more than what the Young Wolf would do.” 

Sandor only growled in response, and the three riders departed through the northern brush of the Kingswood without another word, leaving the two lovers to themselves once again.

The Hound released his arms from around her waist and walked over to his stallion, placing the gold inside the saddlebag. “Get dressed, little bird.”

Each step she took to retrieve her clothing was more painful than the last, and Sansa dreaded the thought of having to be on horseback all day given the soreness present between her legs. One dainty hand lifted to the collar of the tunic that fell off her shoulder and pulled it down her arm, baring herself once she slid it down her legs. When Sansa leaned down to pick up her gown, she felt two large hands grip either side of her hips. 

“I’d fuck you right here with you bent over just like this if those bloody gold cloaks weren’t coming for us,” Sandor spoke throatily, pressing his confined, erect cock against her ass. 

Sansa stood up with her gown in her hand and turned around to discover the hunger in his eyes. She lifted on her toes as she had done several times now and gave him a tender kiss. “Thank you, Sandor.”

The gruffness in him shed after hearing her words, and the hands that gripped her hips let go to cup her face gently, grey eyes staring into blue. “For what, girl?”

Kissing him once more in the final hour of the night, Sansa whispered, “I’ve never had a better nameday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  **Connect with me on** [Tumblr!](https://thequeen--in--thenorth.tumblr.com/)


End file.
